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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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"Where do you like being kissed, Miss Martins?"
His voice, a whisper laced with a potent blend of curiosity and seduction, hangs in the air like a delicate promise, tracing back to a question that once sparked a cascade of desire, leaving a trail of memories scattered across the canvas of his bedroom.
Two years ago, it was a playful jest that unfolded into a symphony of passion. Clothes became casualties, strewn in chaotic patterns, and our bodies converged in a dance of intimacy, skin against skin. Now, the echoes of that history linger, a reminder of the intensity woven into our shared past.
Stunned into silence, I find myself once again backed into a corner, the present mirroring the past in an uncanny repetition. Rational thoughts of turning away or seeking refuge from the rain flicker in my mind like distant stars, urging me to break free from the magnetic pull that holds me here.
Yet, my feet remain rooted, immobilized by an invisible force that defies reason. It's as if time has folded upon itself, entwining the past and present in a moment where the air is charged with unspoken possibilities. The weight of history hangs between us, and I stand, caught in the tension of indecision, unable to escape the gravitational pull that binds me to him once more.
We've arrived at what looks like a penthouse. A luxurious one at that. Terence doesn't own a building like this one from all the digging I did on him, but he must know the owner, because he seems awfully comfortable in the place, but then again, what if they are home?
I'm finally able to move. I attempt to turn away but his arm snakes around my waist just as I do. It's cold. But the fire in his arms make their way into my stomach, creating an unrest, a multitude of a thousand feelings, an embarrassing unrest and I believe Americans call them butterflies.
“You like being kissed here?” his tongue snakes out, lingering on my neck, sucking on the wet exposed flesh. Oh fuck, the warmth, the familiarity, the primal audacity of him. I should stop him, I should fucking move, but i don't. I want to say his grip keeps me perfectly rooted in place, but that is so wrong, because if I wanted to move, I would have.
“Or here?” His tongue makes its way to my shoulder, licking and nipping, enticing small bites as he licks the rain from my skin. Of course he remembers that I love the little teeth on my skin, of course he remembers everything in detail about us.
“Fuck.” I curse and he pulls me closer to him and then I feel it, the hardness of his dick. My body moves involuntarily, it should be the cold, because I press my ass against that hard dick and he curses.
“Fuck.” He steps backwards, his absence stings. Next thing I know, he pulls me towards the back of the Penthouse and I let him. The Seattle clouds cry harder and we finally make it away from the rain into an enormous backyard.
“You're crazy.” I hear myself say, but my body betrays me. It's like there's some sort of invisible pull between us, because I find myself going closer to him and he cocks his head to the side. He's trying to get to me and its fucking working.
